


Song of the Whills

by naberiie



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Battle of Scarif, The Force, peaceful moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naberiie/pseuds/naberiie
Summary: They are approaching Scariff, and Baze Malbus - tired though he is, angry and horrified he may be - is glad of Chirrut Îmwe by his side. For the first time in years, the ex-Guardian hears the song of the Force once more, and knows what it means.Chirrut will be by his side, always.He looks forward to an eternity with his love.





	Song of the Whills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiningjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiningjedi/gifts).



> Written for @crechemaasters/shiningjedi for the prompt sent to my tumblr: "Whispering 'I love you' in between kisses" (from nearly four months ago, sorry it took me so long!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy ^^

Baze Malbus rested against the bulkhead, eyes closed, listening as the pilot – Bodhi – communicated with the Imperial officers. The kid was young, so young, _too_ young, to have suffered so much. His fingers still twitched and sometimes, Baze knew, Bodhi’s mind grew hazy in dim lighting. They still don’t know what Saw had done to him, the kid wouldn’t – couldn’t? – say. But the phrase that sometimes slipped out from his wet lips in a quiet, pleading panic – _“I’m the pilot, I’m the pilot_ …” – were as painful as seeing bloody, broken shards of glass on the ground. Remnants of something terrible.

And then, of course, there had been Jedha. _Had been_. Past tense. NiJedha, gone, ripped from its ancient foundations, incinerated in seconds, people and history and lives blasted out of existence for… what? For what purpose? He didn’t know.

What had been left of the Holy City had risen like a terrible wave above their heads.

Baze suspected the debris would be settling in orbit now.

He wondered how long it would remain a satellite graveyard.

Perhaps in a thousand years, Jedha would have a ring, and no one would remember where it came from.

_Damn the Empire to its bloody, rotten core,_ Baze spat inwardly, his grip tightening on the heavy repeater, the metal groaning under his white-knuckled hands. Of all things, a damn Imperial weapon had survived Jedha. Children had not. Disgust rose like bile in his throat and Baze sorely wanted to spit, or blast something out of existence, he wanted to feel the white-hot burning ammo clips, the smoking heavy repeater hot in his hands, he wanted to watch the Empire collapse and drown in the blood of all the innocent lives –

“Baze.”

He made a sort of sour, indistinct noise as Chirrut settled next to him, his grip steady on his staff. His boots and robes were still dusty from a place that did not exist anymore. Baze suspected Chirrut knew his boots were caked with Jedha dust. Without thinking, Baze readjusted, shifting his leg, moving the repeater from one hand to the other, to allow Chirrut to settle close to him. There was no space between them, and in the nervous chatter of the rest of the rebels, they were practically alone.

“Your thoughts are particularly bloodthirsty today.”

“What do you know? You’re no Jedi.” A young rebel tensed and looked around at the word, until Baze’s hard gaze scared him away.

“No. But I know you.”

Baze made another indiscriminate noise. He gathered his thoughts, Chirrut waiting patiently next to him, and then the words dripped out like poison, “There was nothing left.”

“They have returned to the Force.” Chirrut’s reply was soft.

“The city was slaughtered.”

“Yes.” Chirrut dipped his head, his clouded eyes twitching, and in that single word was pressed all the grief Chirrut would allow himself to feel. It hung heavy between them. “Yes.”

They sat in quiet – not so much _peace,_ there would no longer be much peace for Baze. He knew this as sure as he knew his own name. Peace and the twin hope were gone, long gone. Hope had long ago fled from his bones, leaving a hardened, weary soul. Chirrut was full to the brim with hope, but even as it buoyed his steps it weighed down his shoulders. Hope was a heavy calling. From the cockpit, Bodhi gave a sort of breathy, twitched exclamation of relief, and they began to descend to Scariff. The nervous chatter rose in a swell again, and in the commotion, Baze found Chirrut’s hand. His palms were calloused, the fingers strong.

“Do you sense it?” Baze finally asked, and Chirrut smiled, a saddened, exhausted, hopeful smile. He squeezed Baze’s hand.

“Yes. The Force is… it’s wrapping around us. I can feel it.” The ship began to shudder as they entered atmosphere. “It’s starting to call us back. Back home.”

Baze did not need him to clarify. “What does it sound like?” It had been so long since he’d tried to look to the Force. He wasn’t sure if he still could. And just as he would tell Chirrut about how the young faces around them were equal parts anxious and eager and absolutely terrified, Chirrut would tell him of the songs of the Force. Sometimes he missed it, hearing faint strains of it, like whispered stories from distant stars. He could only ever catch distant melodies, but the Force sang for Chirrut.

“Hm. It sounds like… like many things. The sound of our tea kettle upon the stove. The children playing in the streets… your laugh.”

Baze couldn’t help but chuckle at that, and Chirrut grinned again.

“Aha. See. Home. It also sounds like the songs of the Whills, the devoted songs, the hum of the kyber crystals in the caves… It is a beautiful sound. Pure – perhaps a little broken. But hopeful.”

Baze smiled and leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of death. Neither was Chirrut. Baze might have given up his Guardian status years ago, might have turned from the devotionals and prayers, but still he took comfort in the simple fact of knowing that though death was creeping towards him, it would be like going home. That it sounded like home. Even though he hated that damned tea – even the whistle of the kettle upon the heart brought him a gentle current of peace. He could feel, for the first time in a very long time, the gentle tug of the currents of the Force around him, pulling his atoms and essence towards a greater something. Perhaps he was sensing it because he was allowing himself to look for it, to accept it once more.

There would soon be time enough to ponder the mysteries of the Force. And he knew he’d have Chirrut by his side, and that, more than anything, filled him with hope.

Scariff was a suicide mission. Baze knew, Chirrut knew. The young ones probably knew, too, but were too frightened of it to acknowledge that simple fact. There were too many factors to even consider the chance of surviving. Just as he had wished as he’d watched NiJedha disintegrate, Baze had been given the chance to aim his anger towards the heart of the Empire. The plans were here. Justice for all those lives lost was here. The team would probably not survive, would probably not return to the fleet as the heroes they dreamed of becoming. Some of the younger rebels still clung to that hope, that they would be able to make it back to the rebel fleet. Baze watched their eyes as the shuttle began its docking procedures. Hope and fear, determination – even as their fingers shook. He admired their bravery.

He prayed they would find peace before they returned to the Force.

_As they…_ Baze blinked as the thought – once so natural, as natural as breathing but now as strange as a splinter in his thumb – rose gently in his mind. _Returned to the Force_ , he thought again, and laughed. It had been so long since he’d sought refuge with the old Whills sayings. Perhaps he was now the old fool, too.

Chirrut smiled and stroked the back of Baze’s hand with his thumb, almost as if he knew. Baze turned to gaze upon that infuriating, breathtaking face; the easy smile, the crackling wit and humor. He leaned forward, closed the distance, until everything else fell away.

Chirrut’s kiss was gentle, and he laughed a little, but they hardly ever shared intimacy in public like this. Certainly not in front of strangers. But Baze did not care. He stroked Chirrut’s cheek, felt the stubble that he had been too busy or too grief-stricken to shave, and whispered, “I love you.”

“Baze Malbus, you’re a soft-hearted fool.” He said it lovingly, even as he teased.

“Aye.”

Chirrut smiled, shook his head, and returned the kiss, and now the laughter was gone. Only a deep, true, pure love, and the determination of what they were about to do. The promise to return to each other, to find each other. _Our souls are intertwined forever, you old dreamer_ , Baze thought. But who was the dreamer now? Him or Chirrut?

It didn’t matter.

“I love you, too.”

They rested their foreheads together for a moment, and for a moment Baze thought he could hear the faint strains of that pure, distant song. _Except_ , he thought, grinning. _It’s Chirrut’s laugh._

Jyn,  _little sister_ , and Captain Andor stepped forward into the center of the group. Their faces were grim, determined – but yes, there too, hope flickered in her eyes. Baze stood, his joints groaning. _Just a few hours more_ , he thought, one hand resting on Chirrut’s shoulders. _Just a few hours more._

“Make ten men feel like a hundred.” Andor said, his eyes like fire.

_I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me._

The rebels began to divide themselves, and Baze took a long, steadying breath. Chirrut still smelled of Jedha. Here was their chance, here was the justice. Here – the Empire would begin to crumble. Baze was determined, he was honored. He was not afraid.

_We are one with the Force._

His hand found Chirrut’s once more.

The song grew stronger, and Baze smiled.

_We are one._


End file.
